The Obscured Horizon

Bahiyya’s seal and the village name were on Layan’s seat slip. Between them was a space just wide enough for the date. Layan ran her finger over the blank before she folded the slip. If the new month began at sunset, she could leave at dawn and reach home before her mother covered the loom for the evening.

“I’ve saved you a place beside me,” Bahiyya said, tightening a rope beneath the edge of the cart. “Set your little box here when you come.”

She tapped the board by her footrest with the end of the rope. Six jars of blue dye sat in the bed of the cart, each settled in straw. The blue showed under Bahiyya’s fingernail as she turned over a receipt propped against the wheel.

“The storekeeper takes them on the first of the month. If that’s tomorrow, I can get there ahead of the heat. I need word from the observatory before I put the animal back in the stable.”

“I’ll bring it down after the sighting.”

“A line will do.”

Since Layan had come to the observatory, her mother had written twice to ask her to bring back the old needle box. Then came a third note, asking only what day she would be home. Layan had set the box by the steps that morning and wedged a bit of cloth into the clasp so the needles would keep quiet on the walk to the cart.

On her way back through the market, the baker was lifting the first board to close his shutter. By the light still on the roof edge, she reckoned she had time to open the ledger and sharpen one pen. She hurried up the steps. The edge of the folded slip bent against the box key in her pocket as she climbed.